Page 80 of Truck Hard

I pull back enough to look at him properly. He may have won the fight against Charlie, but he took a beating too. A bruise is forming on his jaw and around his eye where he was cut. That’s going to leave a scar.

But still, his face is so familiar—the strong jaw, the kind eyes, the slight crook in his nose from that fight in high school. But there are new lines around his eyes, a maturity that wasn’t there when we were young and foolish and in love.

In love. The thought sends a jolt through me. Because despite everything—despite thirteen years of marriage to Charlie,despite all the pain and fear and doubt—part of me never stopped loving Liam. And that terrifies me more than anything.

“What if I mess everything up again?” The words slip out before I can stop them. “What if I’m too broken to—”

“You’re not broken.” Liam’s voice is firm. “You’re stronger than you think, sweetheart.”

A wet laugh escapes me despite the way the endearment sends a thrill through my body. Sweetheart. He’s called me that since we first started dating. Said I’d always be his sweetheart. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you.” His thumb traces the line of my jaw. “The real you—not the version Charlie tried to create. You’re still in there. Still fighting. Still loving. Still brave.”

“I don’t feel brave.”

“That’s usually when you’re the bravest of all.” He smiles slightly. “Want to know how I know?”

I nod, caught by the warmth in his eyes.

“Because even after everything Charlie did, you still opened your heart to Cam. Still taught him kindness and strength and love. That takes incredible courage.”

Fresh tears spill over. “Cam is the easy part. Loving him... it’s like breathing. Natural. Necessary.”

“Exactly.” Liam’s smile widens. “Love comes naturally to you, Hannah. That’s not a weakness—it’s your greatest strength.”

I lean into him again—avoiding the side of his chest where Charlie cut him—letting his solid presence anchor me. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, a rhythm that speaks of safety and home.

“I’m so tired,” I whisper. “Of being afraid. Of looking over my shoulder. Of wondering when the next blow will come.”

“Then let me help carry that weight for a while.” His arms tighten around me. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

The permission in his words breaks something loose inside me. Tears come faster now, years of pent-up fear and pain pouring out. Liam just holds me, one hand stroking my back while the other cradles my head against his chest. He doesn’t try to shush me or tell me everything will be okay. He just lets me feel what I need to feel.

I don’t know how long we stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms while I cry. Long enough for my legs to start trembling, for my throat to grow raw. Long enough for the storm of emotion to gradually settle into exhausted calm.

When I finally lift my head, Liam’s shirt is soaked with my tears. “Sorry,” I mumble, trying to smooth the wet fabric even though this shirt is clearly already ruined.

He catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Never apologize for trusting me with your pain.”

The tenderness in the gesture makes fresh tears well up. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

His thumb strokes over my knuckles. “I’ve had thirteen years to think about all the things I should have said back then. All the ways I should have fought for you.”

“Liam.” The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache.

He takes a deep breath. “I was young and stupid and scared. But I was wrong to let you go. So wrong. And watching you suffer because of my mistakes—”

“Stop.” I press my fingers to his lips. “You didn’t make me marry Charlie. That was my choice—a bad one, but mine. You can’t take responsibility for his actions.”

“But if I had been braver.” His eyes are haunted. “If I had told you how much I loved you instead of pushing you away, things could have been different for all of us.”

“We can’t change the past.” The words hurt to say, but they’re true. “All we can do is try harder. Be better.”

Hope flares in his expression. “Together?”

The question hangs between us, weighted with possibility. Part of me wants to run—to protect myself from the risk of more pain. But a larger part is tired of running.

“I’m willing to try,” I whisper. “But... slowly. I need time to figure out who I am without Charlie’s voice in my head. I still have so much healing to do.”

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